CRUISING '97.

France By Barge

Six Lazy Days Of Luxury At A Horse-and-buggy Pace

March 23, 1997|By Alan Littell. Special to the Tribune.

For most of us the word "barge" calls up images of something squat, cigar-shaped, filled with coal.

Not so in France. Or at least not always so.

Long and low, it is true, and sometimes indeed filled with coal. But as often as not the holds have been replaced by oak- or teak-walled passenger quarters that for connoisseurs of river travel make the notion of "barge" and "barging" synonymous with luxury cruising.

My first glimpse of the Napoleon--at a Rhone River quay in the south of France--dispelled any doubts I might have had. White and sturdy-looking with blunt bows and a rounded stern, the 129-foot converted workboat had a canopy-shaded sundeck and brightly varnished pilot house.

Below decks the layout displayed its designer's eye for comfort: a spacious, book-lined saloon, or lounge, and a small but elegantly appointed dining room brightened by gleaming crystal and starched napery. With six wood-paneled cabins big enough to accommodate twin or queen-size beds and private baths, the diesel-powered craft can carry as many as 12 passengers, though only six had signed up for the trip I took.

Starting at St. Vallier, just below Lyon, the Napoleon typically covers a 125-mile stretch of the lower Rhone at horse-and-buggy pace. The six-day journey through the heart of Provence affords a leisurely view of one of the loveliest and most historic regions of France--a sun-drenched, vineyard-bordered valley filled with the crumbling remains of Roman and medieval civilizations.

Side trips in an accompanying minibus range from wine tastings to tours of towns and villages that sleep secure within their ancient walls. They also include a ramble through the final port-of-call at Arles to locales made famous by the artist Vincent Van Gogh.

Our first day on the river the barge slipped south under a powder-blue sky. We sailed into a remote and empty landscape of wooded hills.

From what would become my favorite vantage point, the miniscule wheelhouse, I could gaze at the receding shore or watch the pilot, Dominique Vaquer, as he deftly steered a course mid-channel.

Dominique has navigated France's waterways for half of his 41 years. Thin and dark-haired, intent on the course, he would patiently explain in excellent English key features of the Rhone: history, currents, the eight locks that would lower us 350 feet by the time we tied up at Arles.

With all due deference to the pilot, the central figure in a crew of six was, not unnaturally, the chef, Mark Heyes, a 30-year-old Englishman who has spent much of his working life afloat in France. His cuisine happily reflected his training; it was savory, always memorable--wholly French.

Our inaugural dinner that night featured a splendid salmon terrine followed by veal in a pastry shell. The generous selection of regional wines accompanying the meal was included in the cruise price, as were after-dinner drinks served in the saloon.

Smoking, it should be noted, was permitted only on the open decks.

By the morning of the second day the Napoleon's passengers had shaken down into shipboard routine. We were all Americans, a reasonably compatible mix of retirees and young and middle-age professionals. While some of us dozed or read, others would crowd the pilot house.

South of the town of Montelimar we drifted under a bright sun past miles of vineyards, docking late in the morning at Viviers, a sprawl of red-tiled roofs on the Rhone's west bank. At the foot of the gangway the Napoleon's Polish-French captain-cum-tour guide, Lado Ciechanowski, waited with the minibus.

Viviers was a typical shore excursion, a farming center of cobbled lanes climbing to a 12th Century cathedral. In addition to the bus tour, Lado gave us ample time to wander on foot through a busy and colorful open-air market with its offerings of produce, cheese and those enduring symbols of Provence, sprays of dried lavender.

We set sail again in early afternoon, dining on the sundeck--the menu was mussels and cold curried chicken--as the barge dropped downstream to the clifflike lock at Bollene. With a fall of 90 feet, it is Europe's deepest.

The river widens below Bollene. The land along its banks flattens to a fertile plain dotted with olive groves and the ruins of ancient fortresses spilling down the hillsides. Beyond, in the west, Alpine peaks shoulder into the sky. The characteristic mistral wind of the Rhone Valley funnels out of the north.

A village on the west bank, St. Etienne, was our stop for the night. The next day's shore outing took us first to nearby Chateauneuf-du-Pape for tours and wine tastings in a district that has given its name to the headiest of Rhone vintages.

Returning to the river, we alighted in the market town of Orange to inspect a repository of 2,000-year-old monuments left behind by Roman conquerors of southern France. Among them was a triumphal arch, also the proscenium theater said to be the best preserved in Provence.